The Day We Buried My Wife

The Day We Buried My Wife

How does one shower?
I've forgotten how to shave
A lifeless razor, limp in hand for hours
Then clattering in a bone dry sink

No rest to gain as well
On our cold, wooden floor
As I grieve.
What's more, I believe
Exposed electric wires lie beneath our sheets
To sleep there, I'd surely join you.

This morning should not be,
Apparently since there's no wind
Yet something whips through me,
My son's hair and daughter's sundress
And there's no sun,
Yet our eyes squint
Dark sweat beads my brow
God save me, I know not how
To wipe that and tears from my eyes

And words are soft
Soft as the back of her arms
The small
Of her back, laugh, or breasts
For a loud shriek or protest
At best
Would filch sweet sanity from us all

What design, but of darkness to apall?
What mountain of matrimony, but to fall
To here?
This ground and dirt
This spot
I cannot
Do this alone.